


Questioning

by shenkleys



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 05:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4593924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenkleys/pseuds/shenkleys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Aveline through the years.</p><p>*</p><p>~She had dropped everything to stick by them, warrior woman as big as he is, as sturdy as he is, the steel he draws from her curving around himself like an unbreakable barrier. The impenetrable shield to his devastating swing, that Hawke can scarcely imagine himself without her at this point~</p>
            </blockquote>





	Questioning

**I.**

He doesn't even see her for _her_ ; just the wife of the templar who's narrowing his eyes at Bethany that makes Hawke prepared to make that bleeding gash on his back wider.

" _Apostate,_ " the templar snarls, and the elder brother in him fires up, fingers clenching around his great axe until the woman sighs her husband's name softly, shaking her head, and her templar relents.

All Hawke sees is the shield she carries, what that represents, a symbol he has sworn his life to keep away from his sister at all costs.

_Enemy._

 

**II.**

The templar is dead. Carver is dead. They're packed together tighter than they can breathe in the lower decks of the ship which might capsize in the storm, barely any room to stretch, and his mother cannot stop crying.

Hawke can't even tell how much time has passed, or worse, how he feels. Lothering destroyed and a brother gone, but the only thing that consumes his mind as he glances down at Bethany's head on his shoulder is that _it could've been worse_. He doesn't feel guilty for thinking that.

"Get some rest, Hawke, I'll keep watch," their new addition whispers, moving on her toes more gracefully than her large frame portrays, past other sunken faces to settle down on the other side of Bethany, a hand casually resting on the hilt of her sword because when it comes to survival, it's every person for themself. _Trust no one._

Hawke merely nods, shifts to wrap one arm around his sister's bony shoulders as the other clutches his tiny dagger at the waist, but doesn't sleep. Stares ahead blankly ignoring the wet heat itching his beard and hunger gnawing his empty stomach, smell of sea salt and sweat permeating the crammed space.

He had fought alongside this... stranger, for their very lives, through blood and sand, feet aching and lungs bursting, weapons striking down monsters threatening to rip their throats out. He doesn’t know her.

But it's when he closes his eyes at last, unable to resist the pain in his bones and humidity dulling his mind, that Hawke sees her for the first time, dirt on her face and all. _Trust her._

Aveline.

_Companion._

 

**III.**

His very heart is yanked away to the Circle and he _rages._ Hawke kicks an already cracked wooden chair, sends it flying across the room. It cracks more. Splinters sticking out of position. He wants to scream and pull his hair out, yell at his mother, yell at Gamlen, because _no, no, no. How can this happen?_

A whole life spent running and dodging the Order... he swore to his father, to himself, and most importantly, to _Bethany_ , that this would never happen. But now, his little sister, gentler and kinder than he will ever be, taken from their very doorstep while he had no choice but to stand helplessly, as powerless as he was when he first arrived in this wretched city, watching with a knife plunged into his ribs. Hawke punches the wall just as Aveline walks in.

_Aveline._

He wants to yell at her, too. He does.

"What were you doing? Where were you when she- I trusted you to keep a look out while I was away!" His throat feels raw and his palm hurts when he smacks it down hard onto the table, pain radiating up his wrist as he shakes. Aveline just stares.

"Hawke... you know I was."

She's not wrong. She would never have done nothing if she had a heads up, but the Order's activities are beyond her reach. His anger vanishes as fast as it came, and he drops his forehead against the wall, a sickly thud, unable to look Aveline in the eye as slow acceptance mixed with paranoia takes over.

He's already having visions, nightmares, of Bethany being dragged around, loomed over by some bastard templar clapping chains harshly on her wrists and sneering at her face... _I’ll kill them. I’ll kill anyone who dares-_

_"Hawke."_

Hawke looks at her, much closer, beside him leaning against the same wall in the same house which suddenly feels too cold and constricting, the light taken away to be locked up in a glorified prison where he can't follow.

"I know," he replies. _Sorry._

Aveline looks at the knuckles he busted in a fit and makes a half-move to inspect it before stopping, her hand gripping the bridge of her nose instead.

They sit down in silence, but that's okay because it's what Hawke banks on. No words inside him, dying every time his mind flashes to Bethany's last glance over her shoulder back at him before the door slamming shut broke his controlled calm.

Aveline gets up to check on his mother who has barricaded herself in the other room, before bringing back some food for him. _Funny,_ he thinks, now he has wealth, a name and reputation for himself, will probably be moving back to their estate soon, but, _for what?_ His sister will never see any of it. He would burn his estate to the ground and all his gold if he could have Bethany back.

The presence beside him is the only thing he can tolerate right now, and Aveline spends the evening there with him. There are still words he wants to say to her but can't quite make them out. A candle illuminates their corner from the table when it gets dark; Aveline lights it with a long stick when it becomes apparent Hawke isn’t going to bother, and the aura she carries soothes him, lulls him where he remains motionless.

"It'll be okay, Hawke...," her voice soft yet strong as rough fingers wind around his forearm, orange light of the small flame making her pale hand ghostly against his brown one. "Bethany's smart, she'll be okay."

Hawke inhales, this fear he worries that will never fade, but clasps her hand in response, words finally forming in his mouth, choppy and barely audible in the gloom.

"You've been good to me, Aveline."

 _Understatement._ And he will do well to remember.

The rest of the night moves wordlessly, Hawke eventually dozing where he sits. Aveline stays throughout.

_Friend._

 

**IV.**

They've finally found Orsino's small travelling group in the Free Marches at Bethany's insistence, frightened mages from Kirkwall's fallen Circle who stuck with him while many other apprentices chose to flee and make a break for it on their own, grabbing their chance at freedom. Bethany had firmly said that they can't keep running wild, that bolstering themselves would be important to prepare for the changing winds sure to come, that she had to help her people. _Bethany._ The brightest gem in his life. Hawke could never say no.

Aveline had tittered slightly when Orsino was brought up; all of them remembering the former First Enchanter slitting a templar's throat at the Gallows, slender hands drawing the blood drops from the still live body out to a stream, the templar’s eyes so wide staring at the elf then dropping dead, so pale he might glow. To Hawke, it was both offputting and beautiful to watch, red streaks in the black prison, manipulating the fallen Order to turn against their own in the madness and chaos, bloodless corpses rising from the beyond.

 _Blood magic._ And Orsino is apparently, extremely talented in the art. But still, a sizable group of mages had followed him into the plains, trusting in their mentor as they fled Kirkwall, and Bethany seems to be one of them who would still trust in him, had calmly told him one dim morning what was on her mind; _We can't keep running with no plan, na._

Because they had been doing just that. Been running feral in the Free Marches, heads cut off - _how long has it been now?_ Hawke can't measure time anymore. _Months_. First couple of months purely for survival, covering distance in random, no plan, no goal, just... breathing. Next few months tracking down Orsino's group once Bethany had proposed her plan. It was hard, tough, long; Orsino was smart. His group jumping about in the vast Free Marches, making tight turns, doubling back, mixing up the distance they travelled every time they moved, that Hawke and co. had to listen to news from traders along routes and descriptions of people Bethany knew from the Circle spotted in little villages. It required raw effort, steady determination against the constant draining fear of being seriously hunted soon enough.

Long, _long_ months, dull and soul crushing. Everyone has left by now, parting ways gradually within the first two months to move on and pursue their own interests. Hawke had wished them well, but doesn't ask where they're going or what they intended to do. _Why?_ He doesn't care, doesn't want to know. It's not important.

Everyone, except of course, his sister, his faithful hound, and the friend he has had since the very beginning. Hawke can't imagine his journeys without Aveline, like the very strength in his right arm. Oh, he would have managed with Bethany and Flowers, but... he doesn't want to. She had dropped everything to stick by them, warrior woman as big as he is, as sturdy as he is, the steel he draws from her curving around himself like an unbreakable barrier. The impenetrable shield to his devastating swing, that Hawke can scarcely imagine himself without her at this point.

Months of avoiding raiders and bandits looking for easy prey. Moving from one tiny camp to another, sometimes to tiny villages posing as merchants, trading and listening for information.

"Thedas is going to the shits, my friend," a drunkard good naturedly tells him in a tavern one dawn, clapping his shoulder and swaying on his seat, ale splashing out of his cup.

_Not my friend._

But it sounds true enough. Aveline exchanges letters with Donnic in Kirkwall whenever they can, their only reliable contact within that chained city they can count on. Rumours, opinions, and "official sources" never stop swirling around them, every person and their grandmother has something to add.

_The Divine is definitely preparing another exalted march._

_I hear them mages are going to go to war with the Order!_

_My uncle's cousin's nephew lives in Kirkwall... he told him the Champion is secretly a mage himself!_

_It's a sign of another Blight... mark my words._

_Damn apostates... may they are all rot, and the Champion with 'em._

He ignores them all.

Hawke's hair has gotten long, reaching at the bottom of his neck, his thick beard obscuring more of his cheeks. He hasn't bothered keeping it trim, strangely enjoying the wild growth on his head and face reflecting their mindless crashing through the plains.

"You look like a wet, angry cat, brother," Bethany had said one night when they had huddled around a low magical fire his (again) apostate sister had created from nothing, an irritating evening where they had been drenched in heavy rain and when Hawke's spirits were low. The blackest cloud squeezing his brain and souring every inch of his body, as miserable as he could be.

But just like that, he had smiled. Mood lifted, because the real magic is Bethany herself, and no fancy spell she casts will remove the shine he sees her with. _As good a disguise as any_ , he remembered answering while Aveline had laughed, her own fiery hair long enough and pulled into a tight bun now.

Hawke smiles again recalling the moment, beard twitching, all angry cat-like, apparently. He reaches their tent, carefully stepping through the flap and sees Bethany already asleep, body curled on the mat as Flowers sits beside protectively. Aveline is tending to their armour, carefully separating pieces so they can put it back on faster. She sees him and stops, beckoning them back outside the tent to talk, and Hawke furrows his brow.

The two of them sit on the damp earth outside in the dark, sounds of mages scurrying around as Orsino gives nightly orders, casting their defensive spells and warnings around their perimetre, splitting food rations. Hawke and Aveline are mirroring, feet pointing towards each other, arms resting on bruised knees which have seen far too much action recently.

"I've been thinking, Hawke... I should go back."

_Ah._

_Where? Why?_ These are things he doesn't ask, because he automatically knows. He knew it has been coming, but she would never have gone abandoning them on their own. Them finding Orsino's group at last makes this the best time for her to leave – they’re no longer alone.

Hawke nods slowly, eyes shifting to gaze at the carefully controlled fire behind her, and muddles through his emotions.

"I understand," he says, even as his heart gives a sad twinge. "Does Bethany know?"

"Told her just before she went to sleep."

"When will you leave?"

"Dawn."

"We'll follow you to the outskirts," Hawke states, crossing his feet and avoiding direct eye contact because he can't seem to look at her, and because they were about a slow day and a half journey from Kirkwall, and nothing in him wants to part with her. It's _Aveline_.

"Maker, Hawke... it's not far. I'll be fine on my own, you don't have to-"

"I want to."

Aveline smiles, knuckles brushing his own when she knocks hers with his, their personal brand of restrained intimacy they developed long ago, and Hawke doesn't know what to say anymore. He shouldn't be surprised - _he's not_ \- it's done.

They shift a bit, stretch to lie out in quiet with shoulders knocking, watching these people they had worked so hard to find. Hawke feels strange. It will be the second last night he'll be around her for a long time. Or ever.

He wants to punch the dirt on the ground. _Why am I feeling this way?_ He has had other friends from his time in Kirkwall, gradually growing accustomed to his companions. People he grew to casually enjoy a drink and a card game with now and then. Yet... never _enough_ of a friend to cause this swirl of emotions in him. Never enough that he would ever lay flat beside them in the dark watching the stars on a clear night, arms grazing and feeling completely at ease.

Hawke can feel their arm hairs brushing, the tingle comfortable despite his back growing cold on the damp ground as the wind picks up. Two old friends who’ve come so far together, lying in dirt staring up into the night sky, legs touching.

Who is Aveline?

_Friend?_

No. He has been wrong for years.

 

**V.**

Dawn comes and they pack up their megre possessions, prepared to do the day escort and back. Flowers whines, patters on his feet restlessly, jumping around Aveline protesting much louder than Hawke is. Nothing escapes that hound.

Orsino lets them know the night before their camp won't be moving until they get back; they can afford a few days rest where they are. The elf is here now, tall and slim in robes that cover him from neck to toes, slight breeze fluttering them around his ankles as his eyes take them in.

"We won't forget what you did for us back in the Gallows, Aveline Vallen. Thank you."

Orsino holds out a hand, which Aveline clasps after only a second of hesitating.

"It was the right thing to do, Orsino. Safe travels."

"And to you."

They set off, passing safely through the magical barriers and sigils that mark them as friend to the travelling company, with Hawke, Bethany, and Flowers lagging behind, Aveline taking the lead. The sense of wrongness continues, steadily growing like a bleak pit inside him since she had informed him, and Hawke tries to curb it, concentrating on Aveline and Bethany talking instead.

Night falls and the group finds a large tree to settle under, their last shared spot. Tomorrow, they move in opposite directions. Aveline will forge on ahead, reaching Kirkwall by mid-day, while they turn back to camp.

Hawke unwraps their pack and chews into the food they brought, staring up through the thick branches and leaves. Bethany is seated in the grass beside Aveline, leaning back against the trunk to drift, head drooping towards the warrior's shoulder as exhaustion as always creeps in when they travel the whole day, since she spends so much time tuning into the energies around them in the lands, ensuring they don't barge into any cursed grounds. Flowers is nowhere to be seen, but Hawke isn't worried; the hound wouldn't have gone far.

He walks over, settles himself down on Bethany's other side, and his mind creeps back to the time when they were refugees cramped sailing to Kirkwall, when the person on his sister's other side was a mere stranger to him. One stranger his sister would never fall asleep on confidently knowing no harm could befall her.

How times have changed. _Look where we are now_.

"It's my turn, Hawke," Aveline whispers, careful not to jostle Bethany.

She's talking about keeping watch, and he knows it's her turn. It doesn't matter. He's not sleeping tonight.

Neither of them do.

* * *

 

 

The morning is quick, birds flying overhead signalling their time to part. Flowers stands in front of Aveline's path to Kirkwall, stubbornly refusing to move, and even Hawke has no heart to interfere. Aveline sighs, hand patting him on the head and holding his cheeks, telling him to be good in a serious voice.

"I'm going to miss you so much, Aveline," Bethany says, hugging her tightly, body so small beside her. Aveline looks taken aback and mildly embarrassed even though no one else is around, clears her throat as she lets go the hug awkwardly.

"All you have to do is shout, kiddo, and I'll come running," she shakes her head, smiling, green eyes connecting with Hawke's brown ones, "Take care of yourselves now... and don't let your brother do anything stupid."

"Yes, ser."

Bethany tiptoes to kiss Aveline's cheek, then looks at Hawke before walking off with Flowers to pack their things, leaving them alone in semi-privacy.

 _This is it_ , he thinks. The long goodbye.

"Well...," he starts uncertainly, brain numb as they stand facing each other, the sun rising behind his oldest friend, illuminating her in ways he might never wonder upon again. He's standing in an overgrown field surrounded by the three most important things in his life, of whom one is splitting away after spending the better part of a decade by his side. _What can I even say? Thank you for everything? I'll miss you? I lov-_

"No words, Hawke... this isn't goodbye."

He tries to smile, but fails. Aveline bounces on her feet lightly, twisting her hands, then steps forward so her nose is nearly touching his. Hawke freezes, because he doesn't want to break the spell for what he knows is happening as his insides curl.

As much as he wants to keep his eyes open, to _see_ her, they slip shut on their own when her lips gently touches his, the mildest pressure for two seconds before it's gone. This is... new. They've never done that. It's nice.

When he opens them, he's temporarily blinded by the sun, then focuses on Aveline's face. A slight blush is there, the red blossoming on her the same feeling as the blood rushing to his own cheeks, his face growing warm that has nothing to do with the day waking up.

This time, the smile stretches his lips, and he looks down, scratches his chin, "If only the Hightown nobility could see us now."

They both crack up laughing, remembering the gossip about how the Champion and Guard Captain were sleeping together, how it was _oh so scandalous_ , to which neither of them paid any heed. Even his mother had asked once; _"Are you and Aveline...?"_ What exactly, they never said, like they were incapable of it. It was bound to happen from the number of times they were seen together over those many years, and Hawke didn't care about explaining it to any of them. They didn't deserve an explanation.

 _It's not what they think_. Nobody who asks questions and whispered about them behind their backs would ever understand what they have, nor would they care to.

Hawke hums, a happy tune, crinkling eyes matching the lines on Aveline's face. His heart doesn't feel as heavy anymore, like something has been lifted and come out to the open. Laid bare, made clear so his head is no longer muddled. _This is nice_ , he thinks again, and he cannot stop thinking that and smiling now, like a door unlocked at last leaves him bubbling over in delight.

He strokes his beard as he looks at her, and says completely seriously, "Give Donnic a kiss for me."

Aveline chuckles, "Gladly."

She reaches out to wrap a hand around the nape of his neck, and Hawke does the same, their foreheads coming together as she whispers on, "I mean it, Hawke. This isn't goodbye. I'm with you, always."

"Never doubted it, Aveline."

A near decade has passed since he saw her outside Lothering covered in mud and blood and tattered clothes. They had made it to Kirkwall with nothing but the ironwill of their hearts and the sweat they shed... navigating through muttered insults about two mangy dogs from Ferelden catching the city by storm. Hawke had wanted to punch the person who said that to them, Aveline had stopped him then, just like she pulled him back for the better many times.

They let go, Aveline's fingers touching his beard once, then slips away, "Write me regularly, whatever secret way, however much you can share. I'll respond to the same origin as fast as I can."

"I will... take care, Aveline."

"Be safe, Hawke."

She takes a deep breath, then turns on her heels, setting off at a comfortable pace. Flowers bounds ahead after her, barking a bit, then stopping at last, releasing a low whine. Hawke hears Bethany come to stand just behind him. He doesn't move until the tall figure is finally out of his sight, red hair on fire in the sunshine turning the bend in the path beyond the trees. _Gone._

Bethany wordlessly tugs gently on his wrist; they should get back to Orsino's camp by nightfall. Hawke crouches to receive Flowers as he trots back, then they're moving. Perhaps one day, when everything blows over, he can properly be with her, in his own way. Hawke rolls the word in his mind as they make way, the two syllables fitting perfectly on his tongue, the right one at last after all these years.

_Partner._

 

-

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hawke/Aveline is queerplant. Hawke is aroace.


End file.
